e, because he was so fond of dear Oliver, who was one of his right
hands, as well as a dear son-in-law. And he had always loved Jane with a
peculiar pride and affection, devoted father as he was to all his
children, for he said she had the best brain of the lot. And Oliver had
been doing so well on the _Daily Haste_. Percy had often said he was an
editor after his own heart; he had so much flair. When Percy said some
one had flair, it was the highest praise he could give. He always told me
I had flair, and that was why he was so eager to put my stories in his
papers. I remember his remark when that dreadful man, Arthur Gideon, said
in some review or other (I dislike his reviews, they are so conceited and
cocksure, and show often such bad taste), 'Flair and genius are
incompatible.' Percy said simply, 'Flair _is_ genius.' I thought it
extraordinarily true. But whether I have flair or not, I don't know. I
don't think I ever bother about what the public want, or what will sell.
I just write what comes natural to me; if people like it, so much the
better; if they don't, they must bear it! But I will say that they
usually do! No, I don't think I have flair; I think I have, instead, a
message; or many messages.

But I had to break it to Percy. I put my arms round him and told him,
quite simply. He was quite broken up by it. But, of course, the first
thing he had to do was to get on to the _Haste_ and let them know. He
told them he would be up in the morning to make arrangements.

Then he sat and thought, and worked out plans in his head, in the
concentrated, abstracted way he has, telephoning sometimes, writing notes
sometimes, almost forgetting my presence. I love to be at the centre of
the brain of the Pinkerton press at the moments when it is working at top
speed like this. Cup after cup of strong black coffee he drank, hardly
noticing it, till I remonstrated, and then he said absently, 'Very well,
dear, very well,' and drank more. When I tried to persuade him to come up
to bed, he said, 'No, no; I have things to think out. I shall be late.
Leave me, my dear. Go to bed yourself, you need rest.' Then he turned
from the newspaper owner to the father, and sighed heavily, and said,
'Poor little Janie. Poor dear little Babs. Well, well, well.'

4

I left him and went upstairs, knowing I must get all the strength I could
before to-morrow.

My poor little girl a widow! I could hardly realise it. And yet, alas,
how many you